MY DEARS! I cannot tell you how happy it makes me that you are all waiting to read my thoughts on all of the beauty, pageantry, style and panache of Le Tour! I am sorry that I have not been able to answer all of your e-mails individually!

As anyone reading this site probably knows, I am moving to Europe. My plane leaves the North American continent on Sunday, and from there, I shall go on to great adventures.

Le Tour, as fate would have it, also launches on Sunday, and on that day, I will MISS IT.

I have no doubt that colorfully lycra clad, beautiful skin having, heroic little monkeys on bikes will roll out one by one to test their strength on the opening time trial, and that they will be paragons of sporting virtue. I am certain that a worthy victor (I'm still cheering for that dreamboat, Fabian Cancellara) will mount the podium and look resplendent, but alas! It will all happen while I am flying from New York to London!

Dear Readers, the bad news is this: Crazy Jane will have her say regarding Le Tour, and the lovely, lovely creatures who ride it, but it may not be a daily contribution.

I will be traveling most of that time, and may not be able to actually SEE the tour everyday. However, the good news is that you can count on my doing every last thing I can to see as much of it as I can, and if at all possible, I plan to actually JOURNEY TO FRANCE and catch the last week IN PERSON, and WITH my camera.

From Walter Benjamin's "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction":

"The uniqueness of a work of art is inseparable from its being imbedded in the fabric of tradition. This tradition itself is thoroughly alive and extremely changeable. An ancient statue of Venus, for example, stood in a different traditional context with the Greeks, who made it an object of veneration, than with the clerics of the Middle Ages, who viewed it as an ominous idol. Both of them, however, were equally confronted with it's uniqueness, that is, its aura. Originally, the contextual integration of art in tradition found its expression in the cult. We know that the earliest works of art originated in the service of ritual -- first the magical, then the religious kind. It is significant that the existence of the work of art with reference to its aura is never entirely separated from its ritual function. In other words, the unique value of the "authentic" work of art has its basis in ritual, the location of its original use value."

I spent the day first at the National Museum of Women in the Arts, debating the very raison d'etre of such a thing with my dear friend Matt Ambrose, who put up with my ranting on about the cloying nature of "women's art" with admirable equinamity. Then, the National Gallery of Art, where I saw a gorgeous exhibit of platinum prints by Irving Penn and a roomful of phantasmagoric El Grecos, among other things, while listening to the "Naughty Nails" playlist in the iPod. I'm sure those of you who know how naughty Nails can be can probably imagine. I felt like a predator stalking my prey in the sculpture garden! It ruled.

Pictures later, I guess.

Plus, PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION; and very hot, humid weather, which, surprisingly, as long as the evil fucking sun is not pounding down upon me using all of it's powers of torturous, superheated brightness, is tolerable... perhaps even pleasant.

Ok, so here's what happened: I called the airline and asked for a ticket to travel from Los Angeles to Washington D.C. on Tuesday, June 21. On that day, I arrived at the airport with approximately 500 lbs. of luggage, my little dog, and the haggard expression of someone who was up all night trying to reduce the sheer volume of junk she needed to lug to a mere 500 lbs, and was told that, in fact, they had booked me for the same flight on Wednesday, June 22. AWESOME! My advice to you: read the damned e-ticket confirmation mail for correctness.

I shuttled it back to a streetcorner in my former neighborhood, since, at this point, I am officially homeless and don't have an address, dropped my junk off with my brother, burst into tears, and then went to get some coffee and chocolate to soothe my ruffled feelings. In the end, it wasn't so bad. I recovered, got some sleep, and my very kind brother drove me to the airport again the next day, and now I'm sitting in a lovely cafe in lovely Washington D.C. writing the first of many messages from the road, which will probably not be all that funny or entertaining, and my include the odd observation about Trent Reznor, so be prepared to hear all about it.

My flight was awesome, like always. I love that feeling of being in-between places, and having nothing to do but wait. I listened to my iPod, and more importantly, read another totally retarded article about da Brode, this time in Risen Magazine, which is beautiful and glossy, and featured a very entertaining little account of life on the road by Blink 182 fratmonkey Mark Hoppus -- who seems like a charming individual even if his band is not my favorite -- and positively gorgeous photography of da Brode, who looks all painted and emotional in every picture. In this episode in the ongoing trainwreck that is his PR, I have to say that he, himself, was significantly less retarded than the writer, who asked him questions like "What is the purpose of your life?" (WTF?!) and wrote the article like s/he wanted to make out with him real bad.

But, back to my flight. I had a window seat; and especially enjoyed the desert, dun-colored and speckled with the shadows of clouds, and the contrast between nature's forms and man-made ones: little rivulets where water has drawn its path across the dry earth, and rocky ridges rising out of the flats, next to the perfect rectangles of crops growing in that inhospitable landscape, and the straight lines and perpendicular intersections of roads. Beautiful.

Yesterday I spent some very happy hours with my Dad and his wife, Susan, my beloved friend Mr. Matt Ambrose, and my mom. I took some photos, and ate ridiculously scrumptious food while letting the fact that I am homeless, unemployed, and ON MY WAY TO PRAGUE sink into my surprisingly impassive brain. It hasn't hit me yet.

Anyway.

To all my London friends: I will be in your 'hood on the evening of July 3rd. I can't wait to hug you. Special message to Steve Hughes: Please e-mail me your phone number! It's a long story, but I got a new computer, and deleted my entire e-mail file and address book from my old one, like a big fucking genius. I will be miserable if I don't see you, so please be in touch.

I know this has been a rambling and discorganized update. I am a skatterbrain!

Guess what everyone? I'm blowing this Hollywood popsicle stand in just a week and a half!

First, I'm for Washington D.C., where I will visit my mom and my bestest pal Mr. Matt Ambrose, who has gone strangely and unfortunately silent of late, and whom I am positively DYING to see, and thence to New York City, where I hope to hook it up with the fabulous Mr. RCJohnso, and some other loverly folks. From NYC, I will jet off to London to enjoy something very freaking scrumptious, and see MORE of my lovely friends, and finally... PRAHA. It's going to be a rough summer, people. Don't feel too sorry for me!

Anyway, that brings me to the topic of this post:

I'm having a par-tay.

I'm outie, but I want to kiss every one of you on the lips to say good-bye. If you live in Los Angeles, are reading this blog, and have not received an e-mailed invitation from me, drop me a line, and I will send you the details, but there's one thing you must know: it's a MOUSTACHE PARTY.

You MUST have a moustache to get in the door. I don't care if you draw it on with eyeliner, make it out of construction paper, or grow a big, hairy caterpillar on you upper lip, but this is a MOUSTACHE REQUIRED event. Milk moustaches do not count.

Why Moustaches? Because they amuse me. Also, moustaches will make us all look cooler as we raise shot after shot of Becherovka, and boogie down all night long. Moreover, if you don't think moustaches are cool, you're totally, egregiously wrong! Just ask Trent Reznor and his vatos. Seriously, these guys are SO invited.

In the interest of going from one topic which, I'm sure, all of you are finding absolutely riveting, to another that I know you can't wait for me to revisit, this past week marked the first time in years that I haven't been in Pennsylvania for the first week in June to enjoy the fantastic and myriad charms of our American boys in lycra, as they duke it out for the first three US ProCycling Tour events of the year, and the US Pro Champion's jersey.

I have to admit that I was a little sad. Still, my Dad called from the roadside with a blow by blow all three days, and I am proud to say that my predictive powers as to whether or not a break will be caught are completely in tact. This would have been a very satisfying year for me, because it was an all-American podium, and the guy that won, Chris Wherry, is one of the nicest guys in the sport, and also one of the ones with the hottest rigs... if I do say so myself. The other two up there rule pretty hard as well - Chris Horner (in yellow) and Danny Pate (in Jelly Beans) are two of the most delightful and entertaining individuals you could ever hope to meet.

Ah, cycling. I wish I could have been there. Unfortunately, it would have conflicted with the Nine Inch Nails concert, and well, since that's been averaging somewhere south of happening just twice a decade, the choice was clear. Sorry, boys.

Meanwhile, across the pond, Big George won the prologue time trial in the Critérium du Dauphiné Libéré, and still wears the leader's jersey after today's stage. What a superstar that guy is. There is no one in the wide world of sports I love to see win more than that sweetiepants. I sent him a single sentence of congrats and got back a whole pile of exclamation points, so it sounds like he's chuffed with himself. It's hard to imagine how such a fat load of charm fits into one body, but somehow, he manages.